


Aim For The Heart

by Wizard95



Series: Furry Chronicles of Two Hereditary Enemies [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Werewolf, M/M, crowley and aziraphale's first clash, inaccurate moon cycles for plot reasons and bc i'm lazy, welcome to the prequel, werewolffinder's more like it, witchfinder shadwell? not in this au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-14
Updated: 2020-06-14
Packaged: 2021-03-04 07:33:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,364
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24619909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wizard95/pseuds/Wizard95
Summary: The first time Anthony's out hunting he's nineteen and it all goes a bit awry, what with his mentor being almost killed and all... But hey! At least he manages to takeonedown!Kind of.Almost.Like, for a bit?Okay, not really.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Furry Chronicles of Two Hereditary Enemies [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1421716
Comments: 5
Kudos: 26





	Aim For The Heart

**Author's Note:**

> If you've read Witchy Tendencies, go ahead and scroll down now, nothing to explain here. If you haven't: well, there really isn't much to explain either, except Aziraphale = werewolf, and Crowley = werewolf hunter. There. And it's ~~not~~ hate at first sight. Enjoy.

There aren't many exciting things to Anthony's life at this point in time. Just an endless loop of monotonous nights at the convenience store, dealing with drunk middle-aged men stumbling in at 2am for their nightly dose of alcohol. His social life can pretty much be resumed to a chat or two with the local ladies when they're not too dozed up to recognize their bearings and sharing a pint with Jerry when their shifts coincide.

That, and crashing at the sargeant's. 

Except that's become rather monotonous as well. He's never been much for reading and learning and _books_. This strange combination of academic sleepovers topped with chinese take-away is turning into just another dull activity he'd much prefer to avoid. 

"Knowledge is yer first defense lad, ye need to know what yer up against!" is what Shadwell had told him on his second day, dropping a mountain of newspaper cut-outs and journals and dusty leather-bound books in front of him. 

Anthony had bit his tongue. He'd bit his tongue real hard.

Well, only for the first week or so.

"You know, I have a gun at home" he'd started, chewing on a salty dumpling, leisurely turning another page over without even taking in its contents. Sargeant Shadwell had all but grunted in response, too engraved in the map splayed out before him to pay much attention. "And I know how to shoot."

"Congratulations."

And that's pretty much what'd happened every time he'd brought up the subject. The sargeant shrugging him off despite him correctly answering each and every one of his impromptu pop-quizzes about the cycles of the moon and the hierarchy of the clans and whatnot. 

So he'd chosen to skip the lecture this time, to double shift and avoid his hideous landlord barking at his face on the wee hours of the morning due to falling behind on the rent again.

"God knows why I haven't kicked you out yet" was one of the usual phrases.

"He does?" Crowley would grin in response, maybe a wink or two if he was in a playful mood. "Are you sure?"

The way Robinson stared at his ass as he swayed his way towards his door was enough of an answer, there really was no need to involve God in it.

"Are you really _really_ sure?"

The guy was a total twat. And a criminal. And if Crowley could afford to live someplace else he would be out of that shithole in a jiffy. As it turns out, he barely earns enough money to make ends meet, so he's got to deal with the bastard.

Hence spending much of his day in another (slighly less dirty but certainly equally shady) place. Crowley's been questioned by the police more times in the last six months than he's ever been caught actually pick-pocketing. Working in a shop has its advantages if he knows how to be smart about it, though. He's risked his skin many nights snatching chocolate bars out of the opened boxes when the camera roll needs changing and the shelves need re-stocking. Not exactly what you'd call sustenance but certainly better than having an empty stomach. He knows dinner on Fridays is guaranteed - but dinner on Fridays also comes with a side dish of boring homework and an annoying feeling of helplessness and uselessness. So he's been skipping dinner on Fridays as of late.

And tonight, his stomach isn't happy about it.

"That'd be thirteen ninety-nine" he says, soon as his yawn has passed. He opens the cash register in a swift automatic motion and returns the change and hands over the six-pack. 

"Have a good day" she cooes. 

"Cheers" Crowley smiles but she doesn't see it. He stares at her purple dress until it disappears from his eye field, the door closes and that devilish bell rings again. He returns his attention to the TV set on the opposite wall.

" _\--on Woodland Valley. Although the local Police Force have yet to make a formal statement, preliminary evidence points to yet another animal attack case. Warning signs have been put up and the camp is closed off until further notice. Owners of the establishment are encouraging nearby residents to take precautions and carry the necessary equipment to keep animal predators at bay._ "

He stares at the screen, deadpan. There's a tiny little flame inside him that would be burning with much more conviction if he wasn't starving and physically exhausted. Still, he fishes out his flip phone out of his pocket and with a sigh adds the date to his notepad. 

No missed calls, no messages.

"That's encouraging" he mumbles to himself, after another lengthy and powerful yawn escapes his mouth.

Well, it's barely 6am on a Saturday, Shadwell's probably had a chug too many of his cheap stack of red wine and forgotten he was meant to turn up at all. Wouldn't be the first time. He's probably shitfaced and sleeping like a baby.

"Mornin' sunshine!"

Jerry bursts in as the bell echoes again throughout the empty lots, he's all smiles and chaotic energy and it pisses Anthony off like every other morning he's had to witness his unearthly behaviour at this early hour of the day.

"I'm knackered" Anthony growls. Jerry grins his grin, the one that goes along with that once-over and lick of lips, and leaning on the counter and seizing him up and down like he's about to make him an offer which he can't refuse. 

"Extra black with a shot of milk and vanilla. No sugar."

"How am I going to sleep if you keep feeding me caffeine?" Anthony groans, already taking off his ugly red tie and name pin, eyeing the paper cup with longing. " _You_ have it."

"Me? You know I hate it."

"I don't know how you function" Crowley says over his shoulder as he goes into the changing room, giving up his position behind the counter. He comes back out in less than a minute, bag in hand and hoodie on, eager to put some distance between him and the smelly disaster that is not only this store but this whole neighbourhood as well.

Jerry leans on the counter, looking dashing as always. Hair slick wet and perfectly mounted over his forehead, clear pale skin and spotless clothes. Proper clean, deliberately and annoyingly clean. 

Crowley doesn't think he's ever been that clean himself. His water pressure is shit and there's no way he can hang his white shirt up near the window without it ending up some sinister grimmy grey colour. Not to mention the smell! 

He's pretty sure he'll be developing second-hand lung cancer at this rate if he doesn't manage to move out.

"Like what you see?"

Anthony snaps out of it, scoffs and rounds the counter with his bag thrown over his shoulder.

"You think I'd let you suck my di--"

_Ding ding_.

Crowley turns to the scruffy-looking man stumbling in, arms covered in tattoos and trousers looking like he's just picked them up from the laundry basket. He's only wearing a tank-top which in this chilly weather can only mean one thing: junkie.

"You got any baby food?" he asks in a growl.

Jerry is still staring at his co-worker, caught up in the previous unfinished sentence and all the triggered memories that'd come with it, no doubt. 

"Baby food? No." 

"Well what else you got?" tattoed-arms asks unhappily, now taking a couple of steps forwards towards Anthony, who's very much hoping there aren't any actual infants in the care of this disheveled clearly irresponsible individual.

"What, for babies?" 

"No, for a fucking kangaroo." The guy spits out, accent becoming thicker and smell of liquor becoming stronger with every next word he blurts out. " _Yes_ for babies."

"Milk?" Jerry offers with a gentle voice that Crowley knows to be feigning politeness. "Fourth isle, at the back."

And as the man walks past, short of shoving him out of the way, Anthony sends a meaningful look to his older coworker, who doesn't hesitate to return it.

"Well then, you deal with that" 

"I will, Tony" Jerry says, looking rather murderous. Crowley can only hold his amusement for so long. 

"Not a nice morning anymore, is it?"

"Shut up. And take this off my counter" Jerry makes an exasperated hand wave and he holds up the cup of coffee for him to take, "I bloody well paid for it, give it to some tramp or something" 

"You're so generous"

"Piss off!"

And Anthony does piss off, if only to avoid having to exchange any more words with the local drug-addict that's taking an awfully long time to find the cartoons of refrigerated milk. 

He's only two blocks away when he hears his phone go off, an unknown number flashing up on the small screen. When he flips it open, the last thing he expects to hear is Madame Tracy's nervous banter, telling him the Sargeant's gone missing, that he hasn't returned home for two days now and that she's had some very disturbing nightmares about the whole deal.

She's hyperventilating, and she's sure he's been brutally murdered by a cult.

"Oh, fuck's sake... He's gone off again, has he?"

"He hasn't rung back, he _always_ rings back. Something's not right, I _know_ it, I can _feel_ it. I feel it in my bo--"

"Alright, alright" Anthony interrupts before she starts up with the whole mojo thing that makes his hair stand on end. "No need to worry, he's probably run out of fuel and is just knocked out somewhere in the Bentley."

"Ha! As if. You know he wouldn't just--"

"Say" Anthony cuts her off again, "is the gun gone?"

"Is the what gone? Can you hear me? Oh, this bloody thing- I'm running out of- how does this even- Hello?"

"Is the big gun gone, the one he keeps over the bookshelf?!"

"There's no need to shout, luv"

Anthony stops in his tracks to pinch his nose.

"Yes, he took all of it!" She answers immediately. "All of the-- trinkets and those dusty knives of his..."

She keeps going on about it, about how Shadwell's intently trying to give her a heart attack, and she'll have the police knocking on her door any day know, she's sure, and she can't have that, can she? It's bad for business! 

All Anthony can hear is the voice of the news reporter back on the TV briefing, twenty minutes ago. And all he can see is the list of dates he's been keeping on his notepad feature and the very vague image of a highlighted date on his paper calendar back home, pinned to the fridge with a carrot magnet. 

" _Shit_ "

"What?"

Something adds up. He's not sure what yet, but something does. 

"When did you say he left again?" Anthony asks, voice wavering and footsteps getting quicker.

"Well he left Thursday afternoon, not a word, not a goodbye, not even a note!"

"Well, it was a girl. It can't have been him, it was a girl, young girl's body, she said..." He rambles on, momentarily forgetting about Madame Tracy on the other side of line. 

"What?"

"Nothing- I- you're breaking up!"

"Anthony? We need to do something! Hello?" 

He nervously nibbles on his bottom lip as he flips the phone closed and throws it in his pocket, feeling truly apologetic. "Well there's not much I can do if he's gone off on his own and gotten shred to pieces by a pack of fucking hungry wolves!" 

He hops on the bus and rides home, already mapping out his plan on his head, because _of course_ he's not just going to leave the Sargeant to his own devices. Even if he chose not to ask for his help, even if he doesn't believe he's got the wits to put up a fight, even if he thinks him too immature.

He's not the one who's gotten himself killed now, is he? How's _that_ for bold immature rushed choices?

_He's not dead_. A voice at the back of his head provides with little conviction. 

And Crowley tries to make himself believe that, because if he doesn't he'll give up before even trying, and if there's a slight chance that his mentor is still alive out there somewhere... He's going to find him, and he's going to fucking butcher anyone who's touched even a _hair_ on his half-bald thick scottish head.

* * *

Only thirty minutes later he finds himself deliberately making his way towards his landlord's apartment door.

Emphasis on deliberately.

Desperate times call for truly desperate measures he absolutely wouldn't resort to in any other situation, ever. 

But this is the Sargeant's life that's at stake (ironic as that may sound), he gave him a purpose, a home to go to, shitty take-away food and legendary knowledge that will get him locked in a mental institution if he ever speaks of it to any other human being. 

Anthony doesn't have many people in his life, but he does have daddy issues and a strong will to prove his worth, so he definitely doesn't scrunch up his nose when the once-white door swings open before him and the 39-year-old owner of the apartment block regards him with a playful look. 

Robinson doesn't turn off the stereo or put out his cigarette while he's talking to him, and Crowley tries really hard not to turn around, take out his loaded gun from the bag and shoot himself in the head with it.

"Sup, Rob. Need a favour."

He keeps it cool.

Sargeant Shadwell might be bleeding out there somewhere, so he keeps it fucking cool. 

There are worst things than this.

"Do you, now?"

Oh, he hates that cocky grin. 

"Yes, _now_ " Anthony pushes through.

"Oi! Did I say you could fuckin' get into me flat?!"

"Oh, cut the bullshit, you'd'ave got me in here sooner if you could've" Anthony snaps, dropping his bag next to the desk and ignoring Robinson's flabbergasted expression (which only lasts for a second or two, anyway, before he comes back to being the nonchalante hacker slash drug dealer slash ex-con). 

Lucky for Anthony, he's already got a thing for slightly problematic older guys, so this shouldn't be too hard to cope with. 

"I got a phone number, can you track it for me?"

Robinson finally closes the door and makes his way over.

"What's in it for me?"

Anthony rolls his eyes.

"Whatever the fuck you want, it's an emergency" and he points to the chair before him and nods to the monitor.

The brunette sits down slowly, rests his hands over the keyboard but doesn't tear his eyes off him.

He's not _that_ bad, Anthony's mindvoice provides again, but this time he shrugs it off.

"Whatever I want?"

"You find me a location within twenty minutes and we got a deal"

"Well, it don't work like that" Robinson shakes his head, his thoughts finally drawn to something else that isn't Anthony's bulge between his legs: a chance to show off, "only if it's near, who you tracking?"

"Just someone I need to find" Anthony provides, distractedly shuffling into his bag in search for the box he keeps at the bottom, a kind present from the Sargeant that he's never got to actually use (and by present, of course, he means he nicked it when the old man wasn't looking). Nothing very fancy, just a bunch of silver lethal werewolf-killing bullets. Can't really go into war without a proper weapon, now, can he?

"No shit. Gimme the number."

He does. And he's only a bit surprised when the virtual map zooms in and settles around a wide space of green only thirteen minutes later. 

_Fuck me._

Well, the good news is it's not far.

"Can you print that?" 

The bad news is he doesn't have a car.

Robinson stands up to get the piece of paper and Anthony snatches it from his hand and pockets it.

"You owe me big time" his landlord says.

"I owe you big time" Anthony repeats, turns around and on his way to the door gets a set of keys hanging from a single nail next to it. "And I need your bike."

"Whoa, whoa--" the brunette holds up both hands and strides towards him without hesitation, reaching for the keys which Crowley conveniently holds behind his back.

"And your helmet."

"I don't think so baby boy, give it"

"I'll suck your dick for a week, where's the fucking helmet?"

Now that makes Robinson take a step back and frown.

"That's a bit desperate coming from you" he eyes him rather suspiciously.

_Well, I'm surprised you care at all_ , Anthony thinks.

"As I said: emergency"

"If I see _one_ fucking scratch on it..."

Anthony snatches the black helmet off his hands now and turns around.

"Cheers" he says before he's out the door making a run for the lobby.

Sargeant Shadwell better treat him to a really nice meal after this.

He better add him to his fucking will.

* * *

He can't help but feel guilty for not checking in earlier. He should've dropped a message, Madame Tracy would've told him then and he wouldn't be here with only one hour to spare before sunrise. Approaching in broad daylight is not an option. He might as well go in with a flashing flare in hand and shouting "breakfast's ready".

He's wishing _now_ he'd taken Jerry's coffee.

But then again, he reckons the adrenaline won't take much longer to start kicking in, because he's only got a gun to stand his ground and these bastards always move in groups.

Kill in groups.

Eat in groups.

In retrospective, maybe he also should've stopped by the Sargeant's flat as well, got some poison in case this all goes south (a very probable scenario) and he ends up being munched at by a bunch of dogs.

_Rule number 1 lad: wolfbane's yer best friend._

"You twat" he curses as he checks the firegun for the fourth time, "he's right, you're a dimwit, you fucking amateur."

Sun's barely going up, he should catch them a little bit off guard at this time, shoudn't he? Bellies full and settled in for the day?

Unlikely. There's a beaten track coming in to the right of the house but no cars in sight.

So maybe he's in luck!

"You'll be needing luck not getting killed" is the last self-deprecating thing he mumbles to himself before quietly and tentatively starting to move closer. Place looks wrecked: half a roof, missing windows, graffities as long as the eye can see. Looks more like the kind of place Robinson would frequent to get his cocaine rather than a werewolves' lair.

With that thought in mind he stops again to check the map on the paper and the compass hanging from his neck with a leather string.

Has he got his bearings wrong?

Maybe he just dropped his phone someplace near. Maybe he'll go in there and it'll be just an empty abandoned house with a couple of nesting foxes. Maybe it _is_ some junkie's lair and they've just happened to stumble upon a mobile phone in the middle of the woods which they've now claimed. Or maybe Sargeant Shadwell's been left for dead in there, phone still in his pocket and running out of battery.

He shrugs off that last mental image and resumes his walking. 

There's been two killings in the last two months in Woodland Valley, and that's not a coincidence. And it isn't a coincidence either that Shadwell's gone away on the last full moon two days ago when some teenager's body has turned up butchered only two miles from here. 

Anthony only hopes the Sargeant hasn't met the same destiny, because he very much wants to do the deeds himself.

When he's managed to sneak closer to the back it becomes apparent the place is definitely _not_ empty. He stays outside, pinned to the wall and holding his gun up to his chest, eyeing the surrounding trees nervously. Anything could be in there just looking, lurking, _waiting_. They could be luring him in like bloody Red Riding Hood and he'd be none the wiser. 

Soon as he hears the Sargeant's voice, however, all hesitation flies out the window. He doesn't quite sound like himself, in that his voice is drier than a cat's, that is.

"Get off me, ye pansy!" he barks, his words followed by a sharp grunt and the sound of a hand colliding against his face.

"I'm gonna have real fun scattering your ashes over that precious car o'yours, old man"

"But _I'm_ gettin' that" a younger voice interrupts. "Boss said."

Now three things happen at this moment. One: Crowley's heart starts pumping quicker and his hands clench the handle of the gun in an almost painful grip. Two: he takes a minimal moment to rejoice in hearing the Scot's unwavering temper. Three: he draws a deep breath in and peeks through the unexistent window to see one filthy-looking young girl guarding the door.

"No you fucking aren't. S'drenched in wolfsbane you stupid idiot."

Anthony can't help but smile at that.

Typical Shadwell. Always trust him to know his tricks.

_Watch and learn, lad, watch and learn,_ he'd be telling him if he knew he was here at all.

"I don hav to explain tya what that does, or do I?"

"No."

"Well _good_. M'fucking sick of ya newbies going around making trouble. This is what happens!"

Another punch.

Another grunt that sounds more like a whine.

Crowley gets closer to the door.

"Ya brought a fucking hunter down 'ere now we gotta fucking bolt. I liked this place!"

"It wasn't me who killed the girl" the boy mumbles. 

"Oh, shut up Billy" the blonde spits out, turning around and giving Anthony the perfect opportunity to walk in, get one arm around her neck and point the gun right at her head.

"Let him go!" he shouts, keeping the girl steady and his finger on the trigger.

Billy and Wolf Number Three snap their heads at him like a couple of deer caught in the headlights, but it's only the older one that starts laughing after a moment.

Sargeant Shadwell lifts his head and blinks a couple of times before he seemingly recognizes it's him who's standing there, and Anthony thinks he sees him make a face. And it's not a "Oh thank God I'm saved" kind of face.

"Who is _this_?" Wolf Number Three asks, taking a theatrical step forward and looking him up and down amusingly, interestingly, like he's his new chewing toy. 

"Let him fucking go!" Anthony repeats, now pressing the barrel harder against the young girl's temple. 

"No" the older one says, shaking his head and putting on a bored face, turning his hands round and inspecting his nails, "shoot." He adds, with a sigh. 

Anthony's heart skips a beat.

"These are silver bullets, you filthy dog!"

Now that gets the man's attention. He snaps his head up again as the boy looks at him uneasily.

Progress.

" _Are_ they now...?" he offers a toothy grin, "ya should be aimin' for the heart then."

"Cut him loose," Anthony says through gritted teeth.

Billy turns round to do just that and gets thrown against the opposite wall before his hands can so much as touch the chair. Anthony's hair stands on end as he watches the exchange.

"We don't obey hunters!" the wolf roars and turns around towards the door again, "Oh, just fucking shoot her, be my guest, fucking do it."

"Don't!" Billy asks, pleads, and Anthony swallows through a very dry throat as the young girl in his arms starts shuffling nervously, too scared to make any sudden movement. 

"Have you the slightest idea what it is like to deal with them?"

"They're stalling ye, lad..." comes Shadwell's weakened voice from the corner. There's a huge black circle over his left eye and his nose looks crooked. His clothes are dirty and his hair greasy. He looks _pale_.

"They're filthy, and noisy, and careless..." the Wolf continues, now pacing back and forth as if he isn't the slighest bit concerned about him standing less than two metres away with a loaded gun, "I don't know why we've turned them in the first place... I know _I_ wouldn't bother."

"For fuck's sake, just shoot! There are more coming!" Shadwell bursts out, and the desperation in his voice is the one thing that makes Anthony finally pull the trigger - but the girl breaks free of his embrace in that same moment and he goes stumbling backwards and sees her jumping atop him in the same moment he hits the ground.

_BANG_.

She falls limp right on top of him.

The hysterical laughter comes back.

"Uh-oh... that's his girlfriend, you insensitive shit!" The older wolf stands at the door with a grin, pointing behind him. Anthony barely has time to get up on his feet before he's getting punched in the face, thrown down and pinned by a pair of clawy hands on his hips. The gun falls out of reach and he focuses on keeping those canine teeth away from his yugular - but he's only a regular human and an even more regular hunter and his strength definitely isn't a match for a recently-turned werewolf, even in a new moon morning.

So Billy only takes a few more seconds to sink his sharp teeth on his right forearm, the one closest to his mouth, rendering it useless and gaining a painful scream that almost makes the hunter's throat ache.

"Enough!"

The young boy growls at him, his mouth dripping Anthony's own blood right on his face and he can't hear a thing, only a very strong ringing in his ears and another roar that sounds much higher, much dangerous, much deadlier.

"William! I said _enough_!"

Anthony watches the young wolf get off him but doesn't make a move, his hand is burning and he's out of breath. With a kick on the head, he's down for the count.

* * *

The burning sensation is still there when he comes round. So are Wolf Number Three and Billy, the latter staring him down leant against the furthest corner. Sargeant Shadwell is nowhere to be seen and it takes Anthony a couple of moments to realize he's not sat in the same chair nor in the same room. 

"Where's my friend?" He tries, voice sounding strangely foreign to his ears, eyes blinking into focus. 

"Don't worry," Billy strides towards him with resolution and Anthony braces for another hit to the head, "you'll be joining him soon."

" _William_ " a deep voice warns from the left and the hunter turns to see a new face coming up the stairs. When he returns his eyes forward Billy is back in the corner looking much more murderous than before, "attaboy."

"Why can't we kill him?!" 

"Shut it" Wolf Number Three gives the youngster a warning look and yanks him back when he tries to come at him again.

"He would've killed her!"

"But he didn't" the newcomer adds, with an almost sweet singing-like voice that Anthony distrusts almost immediately, "now be a good boy and go take a stroll."

"You're not turning him, are you?" Billy asks, disgust quite apparent in his voice. 

"Well, technically _you_ are."

The boy doesn't stop staring daggers at him until he's being pushed out of the room, and it's then and only then that Anthony properly has a look at who's most definitely the alpha of the pack, and did he just say he's being fucking turned? _Would_ have killed her?

He stares down at his bleeding hand for a little too long.

"Two hunters for the prize of one," the deep voice returns, and Anthony snaps his head back up to stare at the dark and long-haired werewolf, "must be my lucky day."

"Where's Shadwell?" he spits out, clenching his teeth at the unwavering pain travelling up his arm, and it's only just now he realizes he's not actually tied up to the chair. 

Not like he needs to be, he supposes. He's concussed, unarmed, and the head of the clan is standing right before him.

"Shadwell, is he?" the wolf nods, smiles, takes a step closer and crosses his arms over his chest as he cocks his head, "and you are...?"

"Going to fucking kill you if you've hurt him."

The alpha scoffs, the smile not leaving his face at all as he looks him up and down.

"A bit young to be a hunter, aren't you?"

Anthony thinks up a very witty answer but it leaves his mind almost immediately and is replaced by the thought of scrutiating pain. He can't help but let out a grunt, pressing his good hand against the opened wound in the hopes of making the burning sensation subside. 

"Sorry about that," the alpha sits down in front of him, in a chair that wasn't there just two seconds ago but has seemingly materialized out of thin air, "still aren't properly trained, the puppies."

He sounds too gentle to trust him, Anthony knows, but something in his bright blue eyes doesn't seem as menacing. He stares at him as much as the wolf stares back - until another wave of pain takes over and he hisses out a curse. 

"I can take care of it" he offers, shuffling a bit closer on the chair, waving towards the hand he's keeping firmly against his chest, "if you tell me your name."

"Am I turning?" Anthony gasps out, unable to stop the words from escaping his mouth. 

He's supposed to know this, he _used_ to know this. He can't remember a fucking thing. It's like all those nights of journal-reading and book-perusing have been erased from his mind by the concussion. Can you get turned on a new moon? Can you get turned by a young wolf at all? What was the average time for it to reach a no-turning point, again? How long does he have until it's irreversible? _Is_ it irrevesible?

"Do you _want_ to?"

Crowley opens his eyes again and finds the alpha closer than before - his alluring voice coming through over the ringing in his ears. He can only gasp in pain and stare into his eyes. He's got very fucking blue eyes.

"I'd rather be _dead_."

The wolf's intensely stoic expression changes into another smile.

"Yes, I figured", he stands up, giving Anthony a very clear view of his hand going down his black jeans to retrieve his gun, and then he sits again, sporting a very shit-eating grin at the young hunter's unconscious licking of lips. 

Crowley shifts uncomfortably on the chair as the alpha places the firegun on his thigh, barrel pointing right at his chest. 

"I guess we've just got to wait then"

"Or you can just shoot me now" Crowley growls, quite done with the conversation, with the ringing in his ears and the accelerated abnormal pumping of his heart, with the burning in his arm and with this fucking piece of hot-ass werewolf. 

"Now, that's no fun!"

He's too feverish and lethargic to even register the alpha's hand coming towards his face to brush the sweat off his forehead so he cringes back a little bit late, when he's already retrieved it.

"Besides, you might like it"

"I won't like being a murderer"

Another amused grin, another shift closer.

"What's your name?" the wolf asks again quietly, softly, almost politely. 

Anthony stares at him, breath agitated, and he doesn't open his mouth.

What's he playing at?

"Come on, it's just a name"

Another once-over, another playful smile. 

_I can take care of it if you tell me your name._

"...Anthony." 

"Anthony," the wolf repeats in a whisper, then he glances down at the gun in one of his hands.

_Well, that's that. It was worth a try._

"Well, Anthony," he stands up abruptly but Crowley's got little to no energy to react to it. In fact, he's feeling rather dizzy. "This is going to hurt a bit."

And he places the gun back in his trousers and kneels down to grab his bleeding arm with both hands. 

**Author's Note:**

> Please, for the love of all things unholy (like werewolves) leave a comment telling me what your thoughts are! There's another chapter coming (: also, don't forget to check out the [posters](https://smuggsy.tumblr.com/post/620872654137753600/young-amateur-hunter-crowley-werewolf) I made over on tumblr.


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